The human condition

I've been working a lot lately; so much so I was considering saving some time and just sleeping on the stupid bus.  However, its cold and nasty outside. And I think there is probably some policy somewhere which frowns upon establishing residency on a school bus (heck, I'm not allowed to have a taped piece of paper on the bus so a folding bed would be a definite no-no).  But all this driving means that I've also been doing a lot of thinking and contemplating.  So while I'm not busy scanning people's garbage piles, I've been considering run of the mill, every day issues such as quantum physics, the disenfranchisement of certain ethnic minorities, the economic downturn...you know the usual! Yet, there is one issue that I've been spending a lot of time toying with and that is humans and how our unique "higher order" brain system actually makes us really, really stupid. And it was actually a field full of alpacas which lead me to this conclusion. Let me explain....

My current bus route takes me far north into God's country.  Actually, once you get to God's country, make a left, drive forever and just when you think you're about to fall off the edge of the earth, you'll be at my last bus stop.  And along the way, I pass a couple of alpaca farms.  At first glance this animals aren't that smart looking.  In fact, they looked kinda stoned.  But let me tell you, they've got it all figured out.  We humans think we're so much better than the rest of the animal kingdom.  So much so that we don't even consider ourselves to be part of that kingdom.  But stupid humans, we need to take a lesson from the alpacas, or almost any other herd-type animal for that matter. (I don't want the sheep and cows to feel left out)

First of all, I'm pretty sure that animals don't worry about what they look like or what the other animals think of them. It's a "take me as I am" mentality.  That's why we don't see mirrors or cosmetics on farms (although watching an alpaca putting on lipstick would be downright hilarious).  There are no perfumes to mask their odors or alpaca spas to get primped and polished.  And if an alpaca trips or farts, life goes on.  They don't blush, or run home thinking that their life is over cause the cute alpaca in the next field saw them fall and now they will never get a date for the alpaca prom. NO! The attitude is "yeah, I farted. Big freakin deal".  But not us humans, we spend so much time, money and heartache worrying about what others think.  And not even people we know and love.  I'm talking about complete strangers - people we probably won't ever see again.  When was the last time you went to the mall without any makeup or "nice" clothes (and by nice I mean clean, matching and not covered in unknown stains).  Never?  Why? Cause you want to look presentable and not crazy to all those strangers you'll pass. 

Secondly, alpacas don't spend one single millisecond considering how their offspring will turn out.  Nor do they compare their cria (baby alpaca) to other crias.  Animals feed their young, protect them from the elements and pass on the necessary survival skills, thats it!  Humans are probably the only species which spend countless hours worrying if they're good enough parents,if they child is meeting the appropriate milestones and if they're child is as smart as little Susie and Tommy down the street. And to let you in on a little secret, no one is ever as smart as Susie and Tommy.  In fact Susie and Tommy aren't as smart as Susie and Tommy; their mom is just lying about all their great achievements to make her feel better about her questionable parenting choices.  Never once will you hear an alpaca mother yell at her offspring to "get back into the barn right this second and clean your stall, cause if your father comes homes from the fields and see this mess, you will be grounded for an entire year!" Nope, not gonna hear it.  If its not related to the survival of the species, then alpacas just don't care. Plain and simple

While we're on the topic of offspring, if a teenage, hormonal alpaca were to ever talk back or question his/her parents, they'd probably get kicked in the head or at least the ass.  And no other alpaca is going to go "Oh my God, did you see how that mama alpaca just disciplined her own child!  I am so calling Alpaca protective services".  Nope, they think "stupid cria, totally deserved that ass-whooping for the way they just talked back".  But we all know that teenage alpacas are good girls and boys and would never ever talk back to their parents!

Finally, when alpacas grow up, they don't have issues. If nothing else separates us from the animal kingdom, its issues.  Humans have a lot of issues.  You're probably thinking "but Jenn, I had a wonderful childhood, full of loving and happy memories - I have no issues".  WRONG!  Every single one of us has an issue and if you think you don't, then you have issues with your issues.  And everyone wants to blame everyone else for their issues.  Drug addict? Blame your mother for not breastfeeding you long enough OR for breastfeeding you too long.  Complusive liar? Blame your father for being too overbearing, or for not being strict enough.  Douchebag? Blame your neighbour's uncle's sister-in-law.  Accept personal responsiblity? No way, no how. It's not the human way.

So come on people, lets stop acting so humanly and more like a bunch of alpacas.  Cause I've heard the hay is great and the fur coat is simply fabulous!

Walmart is open 24/7 for fools like me!

So I was at the doctors today (well, not really. I was self-diagnosing on the Internet) to discuss a sensitive issue I've been coping with for quite sometime now.  I'll spare you the gory details and let you know that after a lot of poking and probing, the "doctor" was able to provide me with a definitive diagnosis.  Its slightly embarrassing but I have officially been diagnosed with TFD - Totally Freakin Disorganized.

Symptoms of TFD can be difficult to recognize and are often confused with TFL - Totally Freakin Lazy.  The difference between the two, according to the "doctor" is that TFD sufferers actually want to overcome their ailment but almost always lose the recommended self-help book, while TFL sufferers just don't give a shit.  Symptoms of TFD include but are not limited to the constant need to be looking for car keys and/or cell phone; moderate to severe piles of laundry and the perpetual urge to eat KD and hot dogs for dinner (sufferers almost always forget to plan a healthy dinner).  Needless to say, the doctor said that I presented a textbook case of TFD. 

This diagnosis came as no surprise, I know I'm disorganized.  I'm constantly running around like a chicken with its head cut off and this time of year really brings out the worst in my "disorder".  Back in July I promised myself that this Christmas would be different.  I would be one of the first to send out cards, I'd have my baking done by mid-December (yes, I bake.  I make lemon squares that would make your grandma cry like a baby!) and all of the presents would be neatly wrapped (this of course, is assuming that the presents would be bought before December 1st).

Fast forward to today, with only 4 days left and what have I accomplished?  Diddly squat. Nada. Nichts.  Zip. Absolutely nothing!  Well that isn't exactly true.  I have bought one present, but I don't think it counts, cause it was for me and I bought it in August.  And I did get the cards ready before Decemeber 1st.  The only problem is that they've been sitting in a bag on my front hall bench every since.  Apparently you have to put a fancy-dancy thing called a "stamp" on the envelope, and you actually have to put the letters in the "mailbox". Who knew! 

Oh well, Christmas cards for 2012 are ready to go --- I'm so freaking organized!

So this Saturday, I highly suggest staying the "F" out of my way.  Cause I'll be the one, with an extra large vanilla latte supreme (Have you had one of these? One word: OMG!) tailgating you, screaming into the phone, begging Santa to delay Christmas for just one more day.


P.S. If I don't make it out of Walmart alive or sane - I wish you and yours the happiest and safest holiday season possible.  Drink a little too much, sleep in a little too late and thoroughly enjoy the time with family and friends.  Love you all!

P.P.S. If you lika da Jenn, please take a minute to subscribe to this blog.  With every subscription, you'll receive a snarly, stinky cute and polite boy. They come in sizes small, medium and large.  But hurry, quantities are limited.

Hello my name is Jenn and I'm a........

They say the first step in the recovery process is admitting you have a problem.  So here it goes, but you'll to come in nice and close, cause I'm only going to say it once and really, really quietly......

My name is Jenn and I'm a value village whore.

There.  I said it.  No taking it back now, you all know my deepest, darkest secret.  Well not my deepest, darkest...the statue of limitations isn't up on that one yet, so I'm not saying a word. For now, be happy that you got my second deepest darkest secret.  But please don't judge.....I know your secrets....I read minds as a hobbie.

Yes, its true.  I'm not proud of it (yes I am) but I'm addicted to VV boutique. Kinda like Charlie Sheen and crack, like Tiger Woods and flown in hookers, like...well you get the picture.  I'm nothing more than a dirty, dirty gently used clothing slut. 

Today was a 50% off day at VV (only for card-carrying members like yours truly), and next to Christmas, there isn't another day of the year in which I literally wake up with a smile on my face.  Well, actually that smile was probably from the dream I had about Ryan Reynolds doing my laundry while serving me a keg size glass of pinot girgio. Mmmmm pinot girgio....Oh my, is it getting hot in here....anyways, where was I? Ahh yes, Boutique de Value Village (everything sounds high class in French)

50% off is my everything.  I'm seriously considering getting a tattoo professing my love of VV's discounted days.  I mark the calendar, make sure I don't double book any appointments and drink plenty of protein shakes (in the high stakes world of ghetto shopping, there is no room for slackers!) But I think my love may have taken a dark turn....

Two weeks ago, after noticing that my closet was overflowing with clothes (read: after getting tangled up in unworn jeans and "what-the-hell-was-I-thinking-when-I-bought-these" sweaters followed by stubbing my toe on a too-full to close dresser drawer and cursing like a trucker) I went on a clean-sweep rampage. Anything that I hadn't worn in over a decade, did not like or could no longer squeeze my behind into got the boot.  In other words, 1992 called and wanted my size 2 acid washed jeans back, and I was reluctantly willing to hand them over(hey, everything comes back into style....eventually).  Soooo, I filled 4 garbage bags with my scraps and headed off to the local VV.  As I dropped off the bags, I should have relished in the fact that I would be heading home to a somewhat organized closet.  But nooooo, I just had to peek inside the freaking store.  4 bags, 2 hours and $56 later, I headed home with the exact same amount of clothing that I had left with!!!!  GRRRRRR

Sadly and shamelessly, my addiction to used crap is not limited to the walls of Value Village. Oh no, that would be way too freaking easy.  No, I also have a thing for other people's garbage....literally.  When I'm driving the bus, I cannot help but micro-scan curb side garbage for any hidden treasures.  With a quick glance, I can tell if something is of interest and/or value.  What?  You expected me to actually pay attention to driving?  Silly reader.  You're funny.

For many moons, I have picked junk treasures out of people's discarded waste.  Over the years, I've found a little slide/playground thingy for the boys, a desk, a WORKING air hockey table, a shelf and a high end stroller, just to name a few treasures.  Some of it we keep, some of it we donate and some of it we sell on Kijiji (made $175 on the stroller!!!)

But my garbage picking hit an all-time low when, during a recent family dinner (yes, the guests were still at my house and may or may not have been still sitting at the table), I ran down the street in my sandals (it was raining) and picked up a bench.  Perfectly good, totally functionable (is that a word?) cushioned bench.  Sure I didn't know where I was going to put it, nor did I even know the condition of it before I brought it home.  For all I knew, it could have been covered in puke and pee with a nasty ant infestation, but it was raining and I had sandals on -- no time for minor details! Plus, I was too ashamed to inspect it in front of their house (I party with these people!)  Fortunately, it all worked out in the end.  I got a beautiful, free bench (which I thoroughly cleaned), my neighbours got rid of junk and the landfill was spared.   Saving the landfill....yeeeaaaah that's why I pick garbage...."saving the environment"......you can just call me the next David Suzuki.   No seriously, people throw out perfectly good stuff which, if I didn't save it, would rot for eternity in a Michigan landfill.   Why wouldn't I pluck it out, use it and then donate it when we're finished with it.  I consider it to be my duty to be the superhero of the garbage world.  Now I just need to convince the mayor to shine a spotlight into the sky whenever there is a lonely piece of garbage to be rescued.......

Looks like I've found an excuse for my garbage picking (should "excuse" and "garbage picking" be used in the same sentence?) but I really have no excuse for the Value Village obsession.  I'm just going to have to quit cold turkey.  For my new years resolution I solemnly swear that I will not shop at Value Village unless I am accompanied by a rational adult who will talk me down from buying yet another purple hoodie. So there you have it,  starting January 1st, there will be no more VV.  Which can only mean one thing.....look out Goodwill....here I come!

Lest we forget

Today is Remembrance Day.  And while I strongly believe that we should be recognizing the sacrifices made by Canadian soldiers and their families on a daily basis, I realize that most of us take our liberties for granted. Remembrance Day forces us to pause for one minute and honor the brave men and women who fought (and continue to fight) for our freedom. 

My grandfather (who is no longer with us) and my grandfather-in-law (now a feisty 93 year old fella) both proudly served in WWII.  My grandfather drove a tank. A FREAKIN TANK!  He and the rest of his regiment plowed through France, basically destructing anything that showed even the slightest hint of German influence. My grandfather-in-law lived in cold, muddy trenches for almost 4 years.  I don’t like walking through a single puddle, and he willing sat in a giant one for 4 long years.  My grandfather was 18 when he made his way from Saskatoon to Toronto to enlist in the armed forces.  Let me repeat that, HE WAS 18!  Just a mere 5 years older than my precious Ty.  C’s grandfather was, I believe, a little older when he left his family and safe life in Canada for war torn Europe, but he was no older than 25!   

The horrors which they saw day in and day out are unimaginable.  In fact, neither man ever talked about their military careers.  They went to Europe, helped save the free world, came home and didn't looked back.  Never mind that they both survived their ordeals, the fact that they were able to be normal, functioning adults upon their return is absolutely incredible.   I know that neither men, and probably not a single veteran or soldier will read these words, and I realize that I don’t say it nearly often enough but THANK YOU!  We owe you big time!

Random rantings: Get a hair cut and get a real job!

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but somehow over the past....say...I don't know....34 years, I've turned into a real grumpy, old bat.  This new personality of mine seems to have appeared completely out of thin air.  I used to be such a nice person......you can laugh, that's OK cause I am too!

Whereas I used to smile and help old ladies cross the street, I now yell at them to "hurry up and learn to move it, cause I ain't got all day".  I needed to quote that, cause well, I've actually used those words before.  Hey look, in my defense, my grandma was moving really slow!  Anywhoooo. 

Like I was saying, I'm morphed into a really cynical person.  I'm leery of cute babies, and of people who are happily married.  I question women who claim to enjoy motherhood. And I snicker behind people's back when they have something stuck to the bottom of their shoe.  Basically I'm just mean! To help cope and hopefully return to my once gleeful self, I've started a special series of blogs called "random rantings".  What better place to share my thoughts and/or alcohol induced opinions about the stories and events I hear and read about all day long.  And there ain't a darn thing you can do to stop me, so ha!

For my very first rant, I'm going to start with the occupation movement!  And before I go any further, I am as close to a tree-hugging hippie as you can get, when you've got bills to pay, 3 hockey playing, always growing, constantly eating boys and a mortgage bigger than the national debt.  So I don't want to hear or read any comments about me being a Harper loving conservative - NONE!

I freakin love the whole idea of fighting the "man", and standing up for what you truly believe in. I would absolutely attend any type of protest that was well thought through and clearly had a purpose. The problem with the "Occupation" movement is that it has none of that!  It is one of the worsts planned and disorganized protests I've ever seen.  Yes, they have movements spread throughout the world. However, if you look closely, its only the first world cities which are "hosting" these protests.  The people who are actually affected by global social injustice are the ones who are making $1.00 a day sewing COACH bags and GAP sweaters in the back of some seedy factory in India and China.  And they wouldn't touch the protests with a ten foot pole, cause they know the real effects of standing up to corporate greed.  More on this later.

And yes, the protests  have a lot of media coverage. The only problem is that its not mainstream media, where any sort of coherent message is heard by the masses.  The only media source that gives a flying fart about this movement are very small and very unknown underground media.  So the only people hearing about any positive aspects of the occupation are the protesters themselves.  Next to that, the whole world of hard working folk, like...well myself, are laughing at them. 

Seriously, you've been living in a park for about a month, in $20,000 yurts which were purchased by Jimmy Hoffa and the other boys down at CUPE.  Why aren't you working like the rest of us?  If I didn't show up to work for a month cause I was "protesting" I know I would get canned.  So how can it be that hundreds of protesters can stick it the man for so long.  There are 3 possible reasons.

A) You are already homeless, living in a park.  And you think this whole  "occupation" thing is great cause you've upgraded from a cardboard box to a spacious 3 bedroom, 2 bath yurt

B) Mommy and Daddy live in Rosedale and support this new phase you're going through.  But they secretly have their fingers crossed that you'll outgrow it at some point and get a real job

C) You have tons of OSAP money left over, and its only because of your enormous loan that you can hang out all day.

I highly doubt its the former is true.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that the protesters have forced the homeless to relocate.  Can't have a protest fighting social injustice and greed with stinky homeless guys around.  They might mess up the new American Eagle hoodie you just bought.  I have a feeling that most people sitting down at St. James park are there simply so that when they have 2 kids, a mortgage, car payments and a real job, they can look back at say "I was there".  Kinda like Woodstock.

The protest is meant to send a world wide message to stop corporate greed.  And to create social justice for all.  Pretty lofty goals I must admit, but sitting in a yurt smoking dope all day long is definitely the way to make some serious changes around here.  It worked....well never...but I have a good feeling about this time. 

Actually, I don't.  As I go about my day WORKING, I see that not a single normal, employed person is affected by the protests.  Which means the CEO's of the big mean corporate world are definitely not feeling the pitch. They're just looking down at you from their 5,000 square foot, marble decorated offices and laughing.  Heck, they've probably just rolled a big fat doobie made with 100 dollar bills and are getting high off of the hard work of people like me!  And that can't be stopped by singing kumbaya all day long.

Having the right to protest and not face the very real possiblity of being killed or seriously hurt is a privilege that most of the world does not have.   But just because you have the right to speak doesn't mean you have to step up to the mic to blab on about nothing in particular.  Cause by you sitting in a park smoking dope all day long ranting and raving means that real stories of social injustice and corporate corruption get bumped off the evening news and eventually ignored all together. 

Standing up for the rights of others is a very noble thing to do, but please actually do it.  If you want to make real change, go down to the local soup kitchen and volunteer.  Or become politically active (by which I mean actually vote or run for office; sitting Timmies trying to sound smart does not constitute political activism). 

To make global changes, you need to hit the CEO's where it hurts.  In their wallets.  Stop buying the newest iPhones (which by the way, I love!), stop shopping at the GAP and boycott Starbucks.  Cause only then will they understand the impact of their evils ways, and start to make changes. 

And furthermore, stop blaming the big, bad evil CEO's.  We're all part of and support a system where the "haves" continue to rob the "have-nots".  We (and by "we" I mean mostly white, North American consumers with expendable money) have to understand that you CANNOT buy a sweater from Walmart for $10 and expect that the Indian worker who assembled it is making a liveable wage - it just doesn't work that way.  "We" have to, therefore be willing to pay higher prices for the goods we soooo must have.  Only then will the scales of social justice begin to even out.

But that will NEVER, EVER HAPPEN! North Americans love our commercial goods way too much.  We are far to willing to bitch and complain about how bad the world is, without realizing that its our commercialism that makes it bad place to begin with.

Rant over, continue with your day :)

Chicken noodle soup or children: which is more important?

Before I dive into this blog's topic, I have to once again begin with an explanation.  I realize its been a long time since I last blogged.  Some of you were probably concerned that my past life had finally caught up with me and that I was serving time in Kingston.  But don't worry my minons, I've just been well...busy.  So to get you caught up with the happenings of my life, I've created a brief overview of the past few months.  My boys have made me cry, scream, bury my head in shame (literally), laugh until I've almost peed my pants and drink.  I have been busy cheering and yelling at about 548 hockey games. I hacked up a lung with a darn cold that just wont go away. And I have put enough kilometers on my bus that I could have made it to Mexico by now!  Mmmmm, tequila.....

So there you have it.  The synopsis of my life.  With that over and done with, we can move onto the topic of the day, which I haven't quite decided on yet, so pay attention, there may or may not be a quiz at the end.

Believe it or not, but driving a school bus is not as lucrative as you may think. I've been told that there are great perks to being a educational transportation specialist, but I think someone hid them, cause after 10 years of searching I  still can't find them.  Sure, I get to wear 24 layers of clothing  just to stay remotely warm, and theres nothing better than smelling like diesel at the end of a hard days work.  And don't even get me started on the sexy footwear that goes along with the job.  But stock boys at the local grocery store get paid more than me, and that, in my humble opinion, is a problem.  Let's break this down by looking at the responsiblities of a school bus driver verses a nightime stocker (grocery store version, not rapist)

As an educational tranportation specialist, I am solely responsible for the SAFE and TIMELY pick up and delivery of 70 small, innocent children.  I must navigate the treacherous roads of God's country, steer clear of crazy, java drinking commuters, all the while keeping an eye on the bunch of darlings sitting behind me. I must be "professional" when a parent or teenage CHILD, curses and swears at me. I must brave near boiling temperatures in the summer, and in the winter a bone chilling wind so cold it would send the abominable snowman running for his mommy.  And do it all for about minimal wage (sometimes less). 

A stocker must, well, stock.  They ensure that the labels of soup cans are facing the right way, and that the oldest (therefore grossiest) products are front and centre. Thats it.  The hourly rate for the average stocker is about $1.50 more than I make.  Let me remind you, there are no slippy roads, no caffine deprieved commuters, no snot dripping children, only soup cans. And when was the last time a soup can yelled at you?

What the F*CK is wrong with this picture!  Now, I may not be the brightest bulb but I know that soup cans and children are not the same thing.  You drop or dent a soup can and that sucks cause now you have......well...a dented soup can.  Drop or dent a child and that REALLY sucks.  Do you have any idea the amount of paperwork involved in a dented child incident?  Craziness! 

You're probably thinking "gee, if the job stinks so bad, just quit and go work for Bob Loblaws" (that was his real name. Say aloud, it sounds funny!) But heres the thing, despite all the crap and low social status that comes with driving a school bus, I really, really, really like doing it. And while I wouldn't say no to a pay raise, the one thing that would make bus driving perfect is, in the words of the great Aretha Franklin "a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T".  I'm not an idiot, so don't treat me like one. 

If a big-time CEO of a big-time company based out of, for argument sake let's say Cincinnati, wants to improve the safety record of their company, there is no need to invest millions of dollars on gizmos. There is no need to spend a gazillion dollars on gadgets.  All the big-time CEO needs to do is respect their employees.  Let them know that the village idiot could NOT do their job, and let them know this by finally firing the village idiot.  If you do something wrong at your job, you will be let go - plain and simply.  By sending a message that it does take someone special to be a school bus driver, you encourage more diligenous amongst workers.  Cause right now, the good, the bad and the retarded (pls see foot note below) drivers are all lumped together. Which, by the way, is not working. This one-size fits all attitude does not encourage the bad drivers to improve, it makes the good drivers think "why should I freaking bother?"  And children begin to resemble soup cans.

So dear big-time CEO, if you happen to be reading this, please don't invest in another "safety" devices.  Don't make me sit through another training seminar. These tactics don't make for better drivers, only disgruntled ones. Please just let me know that you respect the hard work I do day in and day out. A simply "thank you" would be lovely.  Well that and a sweater at Christmas. 


Footnote: I use the term "retarded" as a means of describing those who just don't have a brain.  I would never use that word to describe those whose daily struggles include asking blatantly obvious questions or meddling in other people's business, for these people I prefer to use the term "Larry".

Good night, I'm here all week - enjoy the roast beef!

The 9 year old card shark

Last night, when the older boys were out acting like a bunch barbarians on the ice (aka playing hockey), “K” and I enjoyed some mom and son time together.  Since it was late at night, I had thought we would climb into bed, read a few books and discuss the recent downturn in the American economy (good times, good times).  “K”, on the other hand had other ideas.  Like any good “G” boy would, he wanted to play blackjack - betting and all. I love my children with all my heart, and I am always looking for teachable moments in our daily activities. However, I wasn’t sure if swindling him out of his allowance money would fall into the “life lesson” category.  But when he pulled out the cards, poker chips and starting laying down the ground rules (dealer draws on 16 and stands on all 17’s, house pays 3 to 2, etc), I knew he was no rookie.  When he asked if I wanted a complimentary drink from the bar, I knew the gloves were off!

Still clinging to hope that we could incorporate some learning into the dealings, I convinced myself that math  was somehow involved.  And it was.  He had to add up the numbers, calculate bet amounts and figure out a payment plan for the money I borrowed from him. But because he's still only 9 years old, he needed help with the numbers. Not being the stealthiest kid around, he did his counting aloud. While I was waiting for my drink refills, he would sneak in some finger counting - so freakin cute.  And despite his numerical troubles, he still won. Actually, to say he won would be a huge understatement, kicked my butt is more like it.  And the little jig he did as he walked away, tells me he was relishing in his victory a little too much.  This definetely turned into a life lesson - for ME!  Never trust someone who can bat their eyes, is under 5 feet tall and can do fancy card shuffling tricks.

  When I was tucking him to bed later on in the evening, he took my cheeks into his hands and ever-so sweetly told me "Mom, I'll always love you....even if you fall behind on your payments"  Such a loving son!